


Cold War

by crownedknot



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Mind Games, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Soviet Union, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedknot/pseuds/crownedknot
Summary: Vasily looked through the car window - Moscow glittered outside in early February like a painting, but all he could see was his own reflection in the glass. He knew what was coming next...
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 26
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Moscow 1968

Vasily looked through the car window - Moscow glittered outside in early February like a painting, but all he could see was his own reflection in the glass. He knew what was coming next - the KGB officials would be questioning him and the other players tomorrow, wanting to know how it was possible for an American girl to defeat the great Soviet chess team. And on Russian soil, to boot. They would want to know if he had done everything in his power to stop her. They would want to know if he had let her win, if he had made some agreement with the Americans - a win for her, in return for securing an escape to the USA. They would ask if he was planning on defecting, if he was a traitor. They would want to decide if he would still win in the future, if he still had it in him, or whether they should turn their attentions to another Russian chess player. Someone younger, someone sharper.

He quietly chuckled to himself - as anyone knew, he was still hands down the best chess player in the Soviet state, and - up until an hour ago - in the world. And as anyone knew, he wouldn’t play a match with any other aim than simply to win. Which could also only mean one thing - that Elizabeth Harmon had defeated him, fairly and squarely.

Besides, how could he leave the country. His entire life was in Russia, his colleagues, his students, his family, his smart little boy… his family. He wouldn’t be returning home to them for a few days. Not with the interrogation that was coming. He would be held like the rest of the team, back at the hotel they had all been segregated and based at over the past few days, until the KGB were satisfied. How he hated the KGB - he despised the way they turned him into a tool of the state, a political instrument, when his real love and only interest was for the chess itself. 

He leaned back from the window and stretched his neck - a lifetime of staring as a profession would result in that kind of pain. He closed his eyes and pictured the game in his head for what felt like the 100th time.

Rook, Queen…. pawn, pawn, Rook…. 

He was tired - 20 years as chess world champion… undefeated.

Bishop…. Queen….. 

“We can crush her in Moscow….” “…..I’ve heard that she’s an alcoholic…” “…..We should stop her before she gets too strong….”

That first game in Mexico - she was young, inexperienced - somewhat sloppy, and could be out-witted. But the ferocity in her playing, that natural gift for intuition, the intensity of her presence, that terrible fire in her eyes…

“She’s an orphan. A survivor”.

He often neglected to look his opponent in the eye during a game, especially if they were young. A simple psychological tactic to establish confidence and dominance - a book standard. He could tell that Elizabeth had been visibly shaken not only by her quick loss to him, but that he hadn’t even looked at her once during their entire game. What she didn’t know, was that he simply hadn’t dared look at her - too terrified of what he might see if he did. She didn’t shake his hand at the end of their game - throwing down her King and sitting back like an angry child, before getting up to storm off. He continued to stare down at the board, until she was out of sight - only then, did he lift his eyes to the empty chair in front of him. He had known that he would easily and quickly beat her there and then. It was hardly a match by his standards. She was no threat to him in that tournament, and everyone knew it. But he also had the feeling, stirring somewhere deep inside him, that she may one day be capable of destroying him.

“I can beat anyone, but time.”

Bishop… Rook… pawn….

Vasily inhaled sharply and rubbed his eyes in the back of the car. They were almost there - just a few more blocks. Following that game, something had spurred Elizabeth. She only continued to improve, getting stronger, faster, more dangerous. Back in the Russia, people began to talk of her not just as a passing curiosity like they had at first, but as a genuine threat. Every time her name appeared, it was always after some victory, how the unknown girl from Kentucky was fast becoming a world-class player. The same way a Queen, starting at the back rank, begins to close in….

“Chess still excites me in the same way…”

For years he had felt a strange void develop. Barely anyone was a real match for him, and while some particularly skilled opponents offered him some degree of mental stimulation or challenge, all the passion he had once had for the game was slowly becoming dry and stale. Playing was now a matter of formality. He played because he had no other option. It was his job and his fate.

“I will likely die with my head on a chessboard.”

Following Mexico, he had continued work as per the past two decades - swiftly defeating anyone who came up against him. But something had changed - as each month went past he found himself wondering more and more about the next time he would be sat in front of Elizabeth. He found himself curious to see the moves she would make, to see that anger and intensity again, to see what had changed, and what hadn't... As Paris had approached, he would be there, as with every year and every trip - with wife, child, and a pair of KGB agents. Except this time - she would also be there.

The car came to a sudden stop and he snapped his eyes open.

“We are here, Vasily Mikhailovich!” announced the driver, who boisterously jumped out from behind the wheel to get the passenger door.

“Spasibo.” Vasily muttered courteously but sharply, by now well accustomed to the risk of members of the public trying to hold conversation with him. He was, after all, a Soviet legend. Vasily’s own quick reflexes leapt into action, and he swiftly opened the door for himself before stepping out. The driver rushed awkwardly to catch the open door. 

“Have a good evening, Vasily Mikhailovich! Could I also say, that I am a huge admirer of yours…” chirped the driver - predictable, thought Vasily to himself as he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked straight on towards the steps of the hotel, the lights glowing down garishly off the stone.

The snow was falling down like powder, and although it wasn’t all that late in the day, the winter sun had already dropped behind the skyline of concrete spires. He took deep breaths, feeling the cold air filling his lungs. He had always liked that sensation, one of the many things that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the world. The KGB were surely waiting inside. He wanted a hot shower. Or a few glasses of vodka. Maybe both.

“Few things are as mentally brutal as chess.”

Chess was brutal, complicated, psychologically exhausting. The constant danger of losing, relentless. And now, for the first time in decades, he had been beaten. Vasily was no stranger to pressure, or the sagging, draining feeling of burnout. But he had always made a point of keeping himself in as much control as he held over the chessboard. He was a master of composure - both over his games and over himself. Calm, collected, systematic… The opposite of Elizabeth.

As Vasily stood on the steps in front of the Moscow hotel, he remembered their game in Paris. The evening that had followed - he remembered the words that he heard her say. He remembered returning back to Moscow the next day, the taxi home. He remembered getting out and inhaling the cold air. He remembered looking up at the sky as the first flecks of snow began to fall quietly, beautiful and sad at the same time - and he remembered the tear that had slid down Elizabeth’s face as she had resigned.

“You must visit the Soviet Union - before the Soviet Union visits you…” (a saying)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Paris 1967

When Paris finally came round the excitement that had been mounting up inside of Vasily was virtually on the verge exploding. He kept his cool, impenetrable exterior as per usual. But as she came into the room for the initial briefing, his excitement turned into something else - and he once again felt that unfamiliar sensation of dread build up inside him. Walking into the room, wasn’t the young girl he had first met in Mexico. Instead - he found himself looking at a young woman.

Elizabeth briefly surveyed all the faces in the room, never smiling, before elegantly folding herself into the empty seat saved for her. The promoter began discussing rules and regulations, and Vasily, only half listening, found himself looking straight at Elizabeth. Only a few seconds later, Elizabeth slowly turned her eyes to Vasily’s, and they found themselves for the first time since their initial meeting in Mexico making direct eye contact at each other. Contrary to what Elizabeth expected, Vasily didn’t look away, although he hid the fact that he felt like a fool - he could feel his cheeks and forehead flushing - though fortunately his biological disposition was one which never visibly revealed such a reaction. A tournament with a female chess player was an unfamiliar situation, but he knew how to maintain sovereignty. Yet even so, Elizabeth’s gaze held his in a way which made it impossible to look away. In return, he waited to see how she would react, whether she would be the first to feel a sense of discomfort. But it never came - and as he continued to try and read her, he saw everything from anger, to determination, to respect, to fear, to fascination in the way she stared back at him. He could feel his eyes glaze over, feeling almost enchanted, drugged. He noticed her lips slightly part and her chest rise and fall faster and deeper. Whether from excitement or from nerves, he couldn’t say.

“From the USSR, Vasily Borgov.” the promoter announced suddenly. Vasily immediately snapped his eyes over, and with a raised eyebrow acknowledged his mention, while Elizabeth looked away down at the floor. When she lifted her eyes again, she saw one of the other competitors grinning at her in obvious display of his ‘appreciation’. Vasily, always intimately aware of his surroundings, and noticing this from the corner of his eye, couldn’t suppress a feeling of irritation at the young man’s show. Much like his second and third in Mexico making comments about Elizabeth while she was standing only 2 metres behind them, he found the disrespect and chauvinism deeply distasteful and offensive. He made a point that he would beat that man to a pulp in his match - and he was absolutely certain that she would too. The thought made his face make the slightest grin - though he successfully masked it with a grimace.

He couldn’t articulate or decide what it was that had awakened in him after that morning. He found himself fantasising each day endlessly about playing her - or of even having the chance to talk to her, to have one conversation with her, just to exchange a few words, to look at her in the eyes again… The thoughts were unnerving, but didn’t distract him from winning against every opponent that came his way. She too, had the same success. They were moving closer and closer to each other - the pieces were starting to fall away, moving towards the end-game.

“The Harmon girl has become most attractive.” His wife said to him one evening. “And she is certainly a very impressive player… Be sure to be careful when the time comes.”  
Vasily didn’t reply - and he didn’t dare to ask to which point she was referring to be careful.

The morning of their match came, and although he could never admit it to anyone other than himself - he was on the edge of his seat. He couldn’t wait to see how she would move, how she would try to outsmart him. How this time, she may even be the one to finally defeat him. He kept his breathing steady, as he made his way to his seat to play black.   
He waited. There was one minute to go before gameplay started… and his opponent Elizabeth - was no-where to be seen. Muttering started in the crowd, and Vasily, staying as still and emotionless as ever, was starting to feel uneasy. How could she possibly be late for this match. With him.

“Mr Borgov, you may start your opponent’s clock”, said the referee, his voice shaking as he hurried off to find Elizabeth. 

After a short pause, Vasily’s hand gently pressed the button. The unease, turned first to disbelief, and then to boiling, searing anger. He clasped his hands in front of him until his knuckles turned white, though his face remained as calm and impassive as ever. She was late - very late. It must have been 20 minutes that he had sat in silence, staring at a stationary board and vacant chair, when Elizabeth finally appeared, hurrying through the corridor to the table. 

“I’m sorry..” was all she had managed to say, visibly flustered out of breath. He looked at her, stood up, shook her hand, and returned to the table, disheartened and frustrated. 

Contrary to the thrilling battle of wits he had been day-dreaming about for months, the game was an altogether uncomfortable affair. ‘The’ Elizabeth Harmon, clock half out, visibly hung-over, unprepared, sweating and drinking water to compensate for the alcohol still running through her veins, looked up at him with despair and unfocused panic. As for Vasily - he couldn’t look at her with anything but stern and seething anger. He wanted revenge - to humiliate her, to make his point - and he would win.

His wife and son were behind him watching - and he remembered his place - the chess world champion. The Soviet legend. The model man of the USSR machine. She had annihilated every other opponent at the tournament - but it was just as the KGB had tried to convince him of - she was no match to him. Cornered and desperate, she made one last move - a heavy-handed blunder with the Rook allowing him to pin her King with his Queen on the edge of the board - surrounded on all sides by black.   
He took one more look at Elizabeth, at the droplets of sweat collected on her forehead, at her desperate, dry, bloodshot eyes filled with panic… and his anger slowly subsided to nothing but an empty disappointment. She looked up at him in horror at his final move - he could only blink at her once slowly, to assure her that there was nothing more she could do.

A Russian reversal (definition): a type of joke, originating in 1938, usually starting with the words "In Soviet Russia", in which the subject and objects of a statement are reversed: "In America you do X to Y; in Soviet Russia Y does X to you."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Paris 1967

The evening that followed Elizabeth’s defeat in Paris was a blur of alcohol, disappointment, and loneliness. She was flying back out to the USA the next morning, but knew she had to spend one last evening in the hotel, obliged to show her face at the celebration party like all the other players. A celebration that she had visualised would be for her victory. A victory that Benny, and Harry, and Townes… beautiful Townes…. had all been counting on her to achieve. A victory she had spent months preparing for, months studying every game the damn Russian had played, months practicing the language, months getting deeper and deeper into his mind...

She sat alone at the bar with her back to the room - the entire area had a strange feeling to it. Many were surrounding Borgov, congratulating him and his success - but there was also the damp energy of ‘a foregone conclusion’, as she had once put it to her deceased mother.  
The other competitors were chatting away, some about chess, others about Paris, others about girls… all of it made her feel sick. She finished her drink, a double vodka - somewhat ironic she thought - but it was an alcohol that worked fast, simple and straight. The opposite of chess.

She slowly turned around and glanced over at Borgov, who was standing surrounded by a mixture of journalists, other chess players, and fans. His wife and son had gone to bed it seemed, given the hour, and the KGB were now more relaxed that their Soviet mascot had once again won against the world, and were standing away from him talking to each other. On his own and free of the constraints of having to play any further matches, he was socialising. His genius was undeniable, she thought. As was his charm. Always stoic, always calculated - but somehow captivating and enthralling. His very presence, although quiet, had the power to pull everyone’s attention. While she was chaotic, angry and unpredictable - and frightened people away. 

She ordered another double vodka. She would normally be angry in such circumstances of losing, as she was with Benny, or after that first match in Mexico with Borgov - but she was painfully aware of how the entire game had been a waste of Borgov’s time, of Benny’s time, and Harry’s time. She had forfeited all her senses for a night of indulgence and forgetting with Cleo. A bitter and superficial girl she barely knew and had nothing in common with - aside from an interest in clothes and bad habits. And it was entirely her fault. She had seen how Borgov had looked at her, the mixture of anger, insult and disappointment on his face. She had seen how his expectations of her had been shattered in a matter of seconds. He didn’t need words - his eyes were enough. Cutting through her like ice, to make sure she knew he was fully aware of all her weaknesses. He moved his pieces neatly, pawn structure held tightly in an orderly triangle, bishop threatening the weak square, knight ready to protect the queen. And after all that studying, all that preparation, all those carefully planned strategies and responses - all she could do was throw her pieces around the board in a chaotic, nervous mess.

She sighed sharply and grabbed the glass, downing the drink in one go. She wanted to vanish, to disappear - she ordered another. The waiter asked if she was certain, and she snapped back at him to either give it to her, or she would grab the bottle herself. He didn’t ask a second time, and filled up her glass.

Vasily stood in the crowd, listening to those around chatter and laugh. But he couldn’t help subtly let his eyes fall on the silhouette of Elizabeth across the room. He watched as she downed drink after drink, shaking her head, her hands on her forehead.  
And in that moment, seeing her lone figure hunched over, his disappointment turned to a sudden... tenderness, as he realised the loneliness and sadness of the young chess player. How she must have fought to become what she was - while he had been bred and supported by the USSR his entire life, with his family behind him every step of the way, mentored by Russia’s greatest chess masters. He may have grown up in a totalitarian state he resented, but it was one which had given him the exact tools he needed to succeed and become who he was. What had she had?…

He remembered her final words with a sadness - “I resign.”  
He found the sudden urge in him to tell her that she was strong enough, to ask her why she felt the need to muddy her senses, to tell her that she had a choice, that she could be good enough to beat him. He wasn’t sure how to do so, but he nevertheless mustered the courage to excuse himself gently from the crowd and make his way over to where Elizabeth was seated, her head buried in her hands.

He took a few steps forward, moving towards her, when a young English journalist, over eager and excitable bounced up to Borgov - Elizabeth didn’t turn around, but could hear the young man’s squealing - “How does it feel to be chess champion once again, Mr Borgov?” 

There was a pause. Vasily turned his head to the young man. What Elizabeth heard made her blood run cold. In perfect English, marked only by a trace of Russian consonants, she heard Borgov’s soft voice. 

“I am, of course, very pleased. It is an honour to play against such fine players here in Paris. But in the end, as with every tournament, there can only be one winner in chess.”

Elizabeth nearly dropped her glass. He understood English - he could speak it. The whole translation stint was nothing but another act. Another trick to make him seem even more distant and unreadable. The man was nothing but a series of clever moves, designed to outsmart his every opponent. She felt her sadness seethe and twist into a boiling rage.

“Borgov’s not a machine.” “That you know of…”

The journalist nodded in thanks, continuing to smile idiotically. Noticing Elizabeth at the bar, he leapt over in erratic steps, thrusting his notepad into her field of view.

“Miss Harmon! Could you tell us how you feel about your second match against the great Vasily Borgov? How do you feel when playing the world champion?” he exclaimed through a toothy, wide idiotic grin.

Elizabeth slowly turned her head to look at him, and his smile immediately vanished - Vasily also stopped immediately in his tracks. Her face was filled with so much fury, hot anger reddening her tired eyes, it could have frozen Hell.

“How do I feel about Vasily Borgov?” she repeated through gritted teeth.  
“As I have already said, I have played through all his games. I have studied his every move. I spend every night analysing the way he thinks, his strategy. And I have to say - I find him possibly the most boring and uninspiring player that ever existed in chess. He may be the world champion, but he is completely soul-less, and spirit-less. At least when I play others, they have some life to them, some character, some sensibility, some humanity. And perhaps thats the reason I am able to defeat them all in the end. But Borgov? ‘Grandmaster Borgov?’ He isn’t a man - he’s not even a person. He’s just a system. A well made, well-put together system. But thats all someone can expect when playing one of the USSR’s machines.”

Vasily was frozen on the spot. The journalist, stuttered nervously.

“Miss…. Miss Harmon…. I’m… I don’t know if I can publish that…”

Elizabeth responded with vitriol dripping from her words. “Well, then by definition you know what you can publish - so publish that instead. Now fuck off, and leave me alone.”

Elizabeth felt something on the back of her neck - a kind of heat, a pressure, like someone placing their hand. But when she turned around sharply - there was simply no-one there. And so she turned back, and continued to lose herself in vodka.

В тихом омуте черти водятся / In a quiet lagoon, devils dwell (a saying)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Kentucky 1967

Beth looked again in the mirror - the dark patches around her eyes were slowly subsiding - she had been with Jolene for over a month now, and the relief of a kind and chess-neutral friend were like a tonic to a bad flu. She had cut out the drink, and was reducing her intake of tobacco. She realised that in truth it wasn’t hard - she wasn’t all that physically addicted and didn’t have any symptoms of cold turkey. The addiction was not to the substance, but to the method of coping. But Jolene was a counterpoint, like a knight moving to protect the Queen from being captured. The threat still remained, but at least there was something behind to prevent it.

Jolene was sitting comfortably drinking coffee, leafing through the pile of chess magazines Beth had kept since her first days of playing chess, when she suddenly exclaimed;

“Who the FUCK is that?!”

Beth turned around as Jolene held up the page with Borgov’s super imposed face, dark brow furrowed, eyes intense, with the headline ‘USSR Chess Championship - Vasily Borgov wins again’.

“He looks like a damn sociopath”, chuckled Jolene, pointing at the photo.  
Beth couldn’t help but laugh with her - and the feeling was cathartic and freeing.

“That’s… that’s Vasily Borgov, the Russian chess champion, and world champion.” Answered Beth through laughter.

“Ah yeah… now I see the Russian in there…. he’s got them eyebrows”, retorted Jolene, and Beth burst out into laughter, before staring back down at her own cup of coffee.

“Beth, honey, seriously though - you’ve got to live your life and you’ve got to learn to love yourself. I know it’s hard - everyone finds that hard - but without at least accepting who you are, even if it sometimes hurts or disappoints you, you’re going to forget yourself altogether.”

Beth looked up at Jolene, and although she couldn’t say anything, not even to say what she wanted, which was ’I really do love you’, she grunted to show that she had heard.

Jolene looked back at her, and murmured “alright then…”. After a pause, she suddenly perked up and said, “So - are you gonna go back to chess? I mean I think you should… you are after all, a genius, I guess!”  
She smiled at Beth with the kind of smile that would light up the insides of even the most heartbroken of people.

Beth looked back down at her coffee; “I… I don’t think so… I’m not sure why I would… I’ve come as far as I can. I’ve already turned down the Russian Invitational. Besides, going back to that basement, finding that old photo with Schaibel… it just seems like… everything is… just a foregone conclusion.”

“What the hell is that?! Foregone conclusion, it sounds like a damn medical condition!” grinned Jolene.

Beth turned and opened her mouth, but before she could say anything Jolene interrupted in a gentle but firm tone, “I know what a foregone conclusion means, Beth. I’m just kidding.… What I mean is, why do you think that you’re at a conclusion?”

Beth thought for a moment before responding. “Everyone who plays chess knows there is eventually an end-point. A place that you can’t advance from. It’s just a question of knowing exactly where that is.”

Jolene sighed before taking a sip of coffee, and nodded her head gently.

A few more days passed, playing squash, talking, being at peace. Not thinking about chess, or Moscow, or Benny, or Townes… or Borgov. When one evening, Beth heard Jolene scream through the wall;  
“Beth!! Come quickly! - isn’t this the damn… ah what’s his name, Bogo?! The damn russian sociopath, Beth, fuck’s sake, Mr Eyebrows!! Well, hell, he’s better in real life than on paper, that’s for sure…”

Beth peered through the doorway at Jolene, who was glued to the TV screen at a face that Beth recognised all too well.

Borgov was doing a short interview prior to the Moscow Invitational, the invitational she had already turned down. His black eyes looking straight into the camera, face calm and stoic as ever. Beth felt a cold tremor run down her spine. She crossed her arms. She wanted to punch the screen, or at least just turn and walk away. And it made her feel good at the idea that maybe Borgov would also feel it, even though she knew that was impossible. 

“Chess is more than just a ‘game’”, said Borgov in Russian. “It’s not just something you only do for ‘fun’. For us, it is a point of existence. It defines us, it shapes us. It can even destroy us.”

Beth understood the Russian, though a translator was speaking on-top of Borgov nonetheless. Beth turned away, wanted to ignore the words, though even with the loud American translation coming through the TV speakers, Borgov’s gentle voice was reverberating in her head.

“I do not know how long I will remain as world champion. I have no intentions or thoughts of losing, and feel as strong and sharp as ever. But I also cannot help it if someone comes along who is able to equal me.”

Beth turned her eyes once again to the screen, to the black pupils which seemed to be burning the glass. She felt her breath hitch, and felt the familiar competitive fire begin to stir up inside her once more. His voice stayed level and gentle.

“After all - no chess player is invincible. We are not, machines. We are still, all of us, just human…”

Borgov’s face remained impassive on the screen, gazing outwards into the room. Beth inhaled once more sharply, feeling her legs stiffen and her arms tense. And all she wanted was for her fingertips to touch the smooth surface of chess pieces agin, and feel the thrill of a game…

The presenter quickly concluded; “Vasily Borgov, world chess champion and his thoughts on the upcoming Russian Invitational.”

Borgov’s face vanished once again. The screen went static for a split second, and then cut to a commercial for coca-cola.

“Тварь я дрожащая или право имею?”/ Whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the right?' (Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Moscow 1968

Elizabeth could hear it - the roaring applause, growing louder and louder like a hurricane getting closer. The sound was deafening. In her peripherals, she could see the entire room on their feet, some cheering, some in amazement, others in relief - others looking sternly at her with grim faces. Their hands were like a blur, beating like the wings of a swarm of bees. And yet, all she could focus on, was the face in front of her, the gentle smile and fierce eyes that were locked onto hers - and the hand around hers clasping the smooth, black King in between their fingers.

She couldn’t move - her limbs were locked, her face was numb, unable to know whether to smile or to cry. Her heart was pounding - in her head she knew what had happened - what she had just done.  
That moment of triumph felt like a small eternity.  
It was Vasily who finally made the move to pull her up onto her feet in front of the chess board. Vasily?…. He was always Borgov, the Russian, that impenetrable wall she had to push through. She recalled the searing rage and aggression that would bubble up inside her at just the mention of his name. But in the end, he was just another piece she had to remove from the board, a problem she had to solve, on her way to domination.  
He had been like an omnipresent ghost in her life, an obsession that drove her forward - the endless nights she had stayed awake, soaking in alcohol, visualising her next match with him, how she could defeat him, how she could end him - reading about him, dreaming about him, analysing his every game, his every move. But never had he been Vasily. It was Borgov. The Soviet. The final stronghold.  
But as he gently picked up the King and held it out to her, it was as though that mask of God-like invincibility simply… melted away. The stoney face that had haunted her dreams and nightmares for so long, became nothing more than the face of a man.  
“It’s your game. Take it…” he’d said softly.

Her body felt limp, and it was in that moment she realised that he had pulled her into a hug, his hands holding her firmly to him. Still clutching the King, she slowly raised her own, barely holding him, as though unable to believe that he was really made of flesh and blood, that he was human - not some spectre or illusion.

It lasted only a second, until he stepped backwards away from her - and she began to come back to her senses. She had done it - she was the world champion, the greatest chess player in the world. She finally smiled as she turned to acknowledge the audience, to take her rightful place on-top of the world. She pulled back her shoulders, feeling the strength in her legs return, and the blood in her fingertips.  
And as she stood up straight, tall and proud under the light, Vasily Borgov continued to step backwards, fading into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - Moscow 1968

Vasily’s eyes slowly opened again. He finally decided that he had to enter the Moscow hotel - if the KGB were there for him, it was just another problem he would have to solve. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong, anything he could be blamed for - he had simply lost to someone better. That was simply how chess worked. A winner, and a loser. 

She had played wonderfully in that final game. There was no denying it. He pulled open the heavy door, confronted by the sudden rush of warm, heated air that escaped from within the foyer. To his surprise, the room was filled with people. Journalists, waiters, the USSR team, splatterings of KGB agents along the edges of the room. And… Elizabeth Harmon?!

He stood frozen at the entrance. What on earth?… he thought to himself, feeling a mixture of horror and excitement lurch up inside of him. They said she was supposed to have left on the first plane following the game…

He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder - it had to be KGB, he thought. He didn’t turn around. A voice murmured to him:  
“The American girl decided she wanted to have a little vacation in the parks of Moscow. Been playing chess all afternoon with strangers. We had to pick her up and almost tear her away from the table. Seems the American has taken a liking to the streets of Moscow. Even missed her flight - she will be on the next one tomorrow. We’ll be making sure of it. As for today, it is our duty to continue hosting the USA, and acknowledge her… victory.” the man said, his voice badly masking his contempt. “There will be a dinner, in a few minutes. We have obviously made last minute preparations. You are just in time, and you, are obliged to be there. There will be no talks today - we begin tomorrow.”

Vasily calmly nodded his head once to show he had heard, and felt the hand leave his shoulder. Elizabeth was sitting in the middle of the room, her white dress standing out in contrast from all the dark suits that surrounded her. She was smiling, talking to Luchenko who seemed nothing more than enchanted by her conversation, leaning forward, mop of hair bobbing enthusiastically as he nodded in understanding with her. She had never seemed more radiant, Vasily thought to himself.

He removed his heavy woollen coat and scarf and handed them to the garderobe. Elizabeth laughed at something Luchenko had said to her - probably some more charming flattery he thought - and her voice sounded resonant and confident. She suddenly noticed his presence and her intense eyes caught his - though he immediately looked away. Her first expression could have been mistaken for fear, but then she smiled calmly and almost affectionately. His face remained static, and he looked back, though Elizabeth noticed that his eyes were suddenly filled with a tenderness and even… admiration?…

“Please come through, dear guests!” Announced a waiter in Russian, and everyone slowly got to their feet to move into the neighbouring room where a large table had been set out, covered in various foods, dishes, silverware and glasses. They were directed into seats, one by one until the table was almost complete.  
“And now, Grandmaster Harmon, here, if you please.” he said, pulling out a chair which she slid herself into. 

“And Grandmaster Borgov, please, here-“ he signalled to the only remaining empty seat, right next to Elizabeth.

He couldn’t tell if it was a humiliation, but Vasily felt a strong heat fill his stomach. He hesitated, looking at the back of Elizabeth’s head, the chair next to her, the outstretched arm of the waiter indicating it. Just sit down you fool - he thought to himself, though he could feel the whole table watching him as he pulled out the chair and took his place. The silence felt like an eternity, even though it was only a second.

“Dear guests - Enjoy!” said the head waiter, and the entire table began to start talking again, reaching out to start filling their plates and pour each other wine. It had been a long day, and everyone’s adrenaline and stress levels were still high, and there was nothing they wanted more than to eat and drink. One last distraction before the inevitable return to Soviet life, banality - and captivity.

Elizabeth began to do the same, still smiling - Vasily sat motionless with his hands in his lap, watching her outstretched arm lift a spoon to start serving her plate. Her hands are elegant, he thought to himself - she is beautiful. He realised he had watched her hands three times now, at every chess match - but always in front of him. Never had he been next to her. The irony of their appearance next to each other suddenly struck him - her small frame dressed in white - his square shoulders clad in a black suit. He found the idea both funny and mortifying. 

Elizabeth spooned some indistinct food onto her plate - she hadn’t realised how famished she was, and as the adrenaline of her victory was starting to simmer down, her attention shifted from the plate set in front of her, to her right. She had never sat so close to Borgov before, so that their arms were almost touching. She cautiously looked down at his hands, saw them tightly curled into fists. She suddenly became acutely aware of their size and strength - she had always seen them moving pieces across the board with a delicate accuracy and consideration, that she had never quite taken into account that they still belonged to man. A man, twice her size and physical strength….  
Maybe he’s angry, she wondered… though she remembered again the sudden hug he had pulled her into, the smile that had spread across his face in the moment she had won. All trace of that warmth seemed to have vanished from him, and he seemed colder than ever. Well, I did just beat him… he must probably hate me, she thought. The idea made her heart suddenly drop, and she almost felt… heart-broken at the possibility. 

“Would you care for some wine, Miss Harmon?” her neighbour on the other side asked her, holding out the bottle. “It’s Georgian - most fine. An excellent country for wine. You must try it.”

Beth hesitated - staring at the bottle. She had been sober since her last breakdown - and how long had it been since she had had a drink. But the mixture of elation, exhaustion and now even sadness made her long to lose herself once more. Besides - she had nothing to lose at this stage. She could drink this evening, and it would even be appropriate.

“Thank you, yes.” she responded as he began to fill her glass. She suddenly realised that no-one had toasted her, as people tend to do for a winner following a tournament. But she didn’t expect any less - she was still, after all, in the Soviet Union, and an enemy - an enemy that is treated with decorum and perfect manners, but an enemy nonetheless. She grinned to herself, quietly toasting her own success before taking a sip of the wine. It truly was delicious, she thought to herself. Her eyes drifted shut and she slowly exhaled at the taste and familiar warming sensation of the alcoholic liquid sliding down her throat. It was only when she opened them again that she realised that Borgov was staring at her, an unfamiliar expression on his face - it was intense, longing, burning, almost… lustful. 

Vasily was staring, captivated by her without realising it himself. And upon noticing she was looking at him, he suddenly came to his senses and snapped his eyes back. He sighed while looking at his empty plate, cracked his knuckles, and finally began to serve himself helpings of the food. He felt queasy. The last time they had been at a table together, he was at the head, far away, safe. Now, she was right next to him and he wanted nothing more than to just melt, and disappear into the ground. He helped himself to a glass of wine, and drank it eagerly. To hell with it he thought. At least it might help him sleep tonight.

The minutes went by, turned into an hour, and the conversation was starting to get louder and run smoother around the table of Russians as they felt the alcohol work its magic and the food satisfy their appetites. Luchenko, 9 glasses down already, was grinning vacantly, cheeks red, and dessert had been brought out - one of the few foods in Russia that was always done well, and which Elizabeth found especially appealing.

“Oh fantastic.” she said as she reached to serve herself a slice of pavlova, raising herself slightly out from her seat in order to reach the silver handle of the serving slice. Seeing her extending her arm to reach, Vasily’s vacant mind was immediately awakened by his instincts for good manners, as he stretched out to help serve her.

“Please, allow me…” he muttered as he reached out, when their hands both reached the smooth silver handle at the same time. Their fingers touched, knocking into each other. Elizabeth inhaled quickly at the sensation - it was like electricity - before quickly moving her hand away.

“Oh… I’m sorry…” she said, embarrassed and suddenly horribly self-conscious. The table’s chatter had stopped, and all eyes were on the two of them. Vasily clenched his jaw, but didn’t look up. “Please…” he said again, though quieter through gritted teeth, as he proceeded to serve her the piece of cake, white and glistening. 

The KGB standing at the edge of the room shuffled slightly, as the table slowly turned back to conversation, some of Vasily’s colleagues smiling - a little too much, too uncomfortably for his taste. If he felt queasy before, he was positively nauseous now. The room was spinning. He felt completely at a loss for control - of himself, of his surroundings - and he despised the feeling. He stood up suddenly. The table fell silent again.

“Please excuse me, dear friends.” he said in Russian, face like stone, trying his best to sound calm and collected. “I must adjourn now - I mean - I must, retire…”  
Idiot. He clenched his fists once more. “I will see you all tomorrow.” He didn’t turn to Elizabeth or wish her well before leaving the room swiftly - perhaps the only smart move he had made the whole evening, he thought to himself. 

He walked quickly, nodding sharply to the two young KGB at the entrance. Walking with assurance and a blank expression, they were unlikely to follow him up, he thought to himself. After a lifetime in the Soviet Union, it wasn’t just for chess that he had had to learn how to avoid rousing suspicion or doubt. He turned round sharply to the stairs - placing his hands in his pockets and moving quickly up them. One of the KGB was about to follow him when the other grabbed his arm and said, “Leave him be Dmitri - he is our greatest chess player and has taken a hard loss today and you know he will have a tougher day tomorrow… He doesn’t need us to bother him.”

Vasily wasn’t going to his room - not yet, anyway. He needed some air, and space and quiet to collect his thoughts and emotions. He could feel his heart racing, from embarrassment, exhaustion and… something else, though his brain refused to acknowledge the cause. On the very top floor of the building was an empty floor. It wasn’t accessible by the elevator, and wasn’t really open to guests, being still unfurnished, unrenovated and empty. But it had a mighty view over Moscow, and was one of the only places he could maybe feel alone with his thoughts in the wretched building.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth, still at the table, was sitting silently fuming at Borgov’s fast and unceremonious exit - he hadn’t even said one word to her for the entire evening. She felt insulted, confused and frustrated. As the dinner drew to a close, Elizabeth finished her glass of wine - though she had lost count of which number - and got up herself.

“Goodnight, one and all.” she announced in Russian. “And thank you again for your wonderful hospitality.” The table applauded, though not too enthusiastically - but she caught Luchenko’s kind smile and glittering eyes once more, and smiled back at him before leaving the room. She took long strides - she wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. She wanted to move, to think - but there was nowhere to go and she wouldn’t be allowed to leave the hotel. Her US government agent - Mr Spook she had taken to calling him - began to approach her from the foyer to escort her back to her room. 

She didn’t even bother hiding rolling her eyes. “I think I will go for a walk. Do some exercise.” she said firmly.  
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day? You’ve already missed our flight…” he said, the frustration clear in his voice. “Everyone else has gone home - including your friend Townes and all the other journalists, who got to leave this afternoon straight after the match - and we are stuck here, for another 12 hours, before I get to be back on American soil and to some food that doesn’t taste like it’s been frozen for 12 years…”  
“I’m sorry, but you do realise you are talking to the world chess champion?” she retorted sharply. “I think I’m entitled to go for a walk, if I want.”  
He rolled his eyes. “To where though?! We can’t leave h…”

She immediately started climbing the stairs, the only place where she would be allowed to walk, she figured. “I don’t know - up these stairs? Maybe back down them? Who knows, but it looks like there are quite a few. So I probably wouldn’t bother trying to keep up.” she shouted down, already near the top of the first flight before breezing out of sight.

She continued marching upwards - the hotel felt deadly quiet all of a sudden. She was still doing every calculation on Borgov that she could, going through every possibility, to suss out his behaviour. She didn’t know how many flights she had gone up, and her legs were starting to burn - but the alcohol was helping her not to notice. She took off her shoes, which were becoming too uncomfortable. At one point she suddenly realised from the sensation on her soles, that the stairs had lost their lush carpet covering, and were now just stoney concrete. There were still several flights possibly left - “Well, come this far.” she said to herself. She replayed the final game again in her head - he nearly had me, she thought to herself. Nearly. But he didn’t. She smiled with smug satisfaction.

She turned the corner, looking up at one last flight leading to door - it was slightly ajar. Maybe there’s a roof up there I can smoke… she wondered. Taking a cigarette out of her pocket and placing it in between her lips, she walked up the final flight, flicking her lighter to try and light it, though it kept puffing out every time she tried. She exhaled in frustration, shook the metal cartridge, and it finally struck alight, the orange flame lighting up the dark corners of the stairwell as she reached the door. She inhaled from the cigarette, pushing it open and walking through. And as she exhaled, she looked up to see the black outline of a figure across an empty room, back turned, hands in pockets, staring out of a large window over the Moscow skyline.  
She paused, nearly dropping the cigarette from her mouth as the figure’s head turned around to look behind. And for the second time that evening, she found herself staring into the eyes of Vasily Borgov.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

“What… what are you doing here?” Elizabeth stuttered.

Vasily had not been expecting any company - let alone hers to just appear through the door. He thought he had escaped - not that he really wanted to escape from her. In truth, he realised what he wanted was to spend hours and hours with her, looking at her… but the fact that it was all so impossible, so incorrect - made his better senses urge him to just stay far away. Move to back rank, if threatened…  
He raised an eyebrow at her, the only reaction his body could give - but he felt the adrenaline begin to pool again in his stomach. How was she able do this to him - he was normally so steady, so even, but all evening he’d felt like a ship at sea in a storm.

Elizabeth found her growing frustration and impatience boil over. She slammed the door shut behind her and strode over towards him, completely fed up with the stubbornness of his silence.

“Look, now that I’ve defeated you in your own country, you could at least have the courtesy to talk to me. I don’t want your congratulations, and I’m sorry if you feel sore, but theres no point in being a fucking asshole.” She took another drag from the cigarette, standing in the middle of the room, eyes fierce, confrontational.  
“At this stage I can’t tell if you’re really a coward or just plain arrogant.” She was losing her temper she realised… the alcohol releasing her uglier side. And she knew she had already started saying things she didn’t really mean, with a severity she didn’t really intend.

Vasily paused, before turning, his hands still in his pockets, to face her -  
“Miss Harmon.” he said in English, tinged with Russian consonants and vowels, his voice low and gentle. She realised that she had never heard him say her name, and the sound took her by surprise.

“Please let me apologise. I never intended any insult. Understand that I have had a tiring day as well. I am not accustomed myself to… feeling lost.”  
His choice of words struck her as slightly strange, though she put it down to a mis-translation. Not accustomed to losing, she was sure he had meant. Vasily, however, had intended exactly what he had said. He always said what he meant.

He looked at her - he wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, the fire she ignited in him, that she was the best chess player he knew. He wanted to tell her that there were so many things he wanted to tell her - but he was just unable to. It was all too unsafe. Things were too problematic, here in the USSR. That he, also, was too problematic… the idea hit him hard. His control, his organised cool demeanour… it was all just to mask the fact that deep down he was as passionate, desperate... and alone, as she was.

“It’s alright…” said Beth quietly and calmly, sighing. Her face dropping down, ashamed. “I’m sorry… I just find it strange that I’m allowed to talk with everyone else on the Soviet team… hell, everyone else I beat in a game in the entire world. And yet, even though you are the person I admire the most, you seem to actively avoid contact with me as much as possible.”

His eyebrows raised in response to what she had just said, but he wasn’t sure what to say… finding himself unusually not trusting his own sharp instincts. He turned back to the window. “Have you ever seen Moscow?” he asked her. “The view up here is wonderful… it is a beautiful city… when high above and distant from it. Of course, a very different perspective from living in it…”

She walked up to the window next to him. He was right - it was a true marvel to see the city of power from so far above. A city she felt she had somehow defeated in a board game. So many different emotions, memories of the past few years began to well up in her.

“I just… do you realise how many hours… days I spent reading about you… studying you? Night after night, reading your games, your strategy… trying to master you… Even after I’d slept with other players - my first instinct was to… god, turn on the light and continue reading about Borgov-“

“My name - is Vasily.” he interrupted. She noticed that familiar grimace cross his face at the mention of sleeping with other players. She saw how his eyes looked down when she called him by his surname. She sighed, feeling like a little stupid girl once again, not the world chess champion. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that she was now speaking to him, he was standing right in front of her, and yet she still referred to him in the 3rd person. How ridiculous, how rude, how idiotic she must sound, she thought. 

“I’m sorry… Vasily…” she whispered. He looked back at her. 

“In any case… that doesn’t matter.” he continued. He waited a second to collect his thoughts… then sighed and said with total honesty. “You know that you don’t need me to talk to you for you to be world champion. You know you didn’t beat me today because you ‘read my book’.”

Beth was taken aback - she had never imagined he could be so upfront, so honest… so heartfelt.

“You won, for no other reason than because you were the better player.” he stated simply. 

He said it in a way that was so matter of fact, so obvious, so formal, but his eyes were filled with so much tenderness, that she found herself once again, for the second time that evening, lost for words.

“I’m sorry… for everything.” She began stuttering, voice husky and rasping. “I’m sorry for being… the way I am… I’m sorry I get angry, do stupid things… not the way people imagine the perfect chess player to be.”

Vasily continued to stare at her, watching her face fill with emotion.

“I’m sorry…” she continued, “… for what I said about you in Paris. I’m sorry for the whole of Paris. I sacrificed a proper game with you… and I’m sorry that I was late…. I’m sorry that I can’t control anything in my life…”

Hot tears were welling up in her eyes. Vasily couldn’t help himself. All of his feelings of nausea immediately dissipated, replaced with a desperate need to comfort her. He suddenly moved forward, closing the space between them to stand right in front of her.

“You know life.” He said, looking directly at her. “And as a result, you know pain. But, as a result you are also wise. These are two sides that will always be competing in you. But you have the one thing that can keep those two sides together. Your talent.”

Beth choked… she wanted to cry, though she stifled the tears back into her throat. She had heard compliments from all kinds of people, opponents, friends, strangers, lovers… but never had she been moved as deeply as now.

“I… I want to play you again.” She said, collecting herself. “ I want to play you many more times. You, are the reason I am where I am now. ‘World champion’. Vasily… for God’s sake… don’t you see… I wouldn’t be there… if you hadn’t existed there too.”

Vasily looked at her, saw the pain, pride and admiration all combined in her eyes.  
“You will play me again. And I will play you.” he whispered. “Many more times, I hope. And I will always, fight you as hard as I can. That I can promise you.”

She felt dizzy. The combination of exhaustion, excitement and alcohol was starting to have its effect. She grabbed his arm to steady herself, and she felt him put his hand gently on the back of her neck. She realised that this was the first time they had had any physical contact other than shaking hands, or the hug he had given her after her success. What would the KGB think of that, she suddenly thought, and horror went through her veins. It couldn’t be customary… or safe, for the USSR champion to hug an American who had just defeated him.

“Vasily…” she whispered. He murmured in reply, his voice deep and resonant. “What… what will happen to you?”

He looked down once again.

“I mean…” she continued, “I…. I hope you’ll be OK.”

He knew what she meant - to what she was implying.

“It doesn’t matter anymore” he said. She looked up at him and he swallowed heavily. “You were the winner. That is all.”

He knew she didn’t entirely believe him. But, she nodded in acknowledgement. He was hovering just above her, still holding onto her as she clasped onto his arm. She looked up at him, saw the creases in his forehead, in the corners of his eyes. Years of focus and concentration and pressure. She looked at his eyes - dark and deep, a mixture of sadness and determination. And she felt his hand on her - firm and steady, but also prepared to retreat. She realised suddenly that she didn’t want him to retreat… she wanted him to stay like this, to…

“There wouldn’t be any winner today… if you didn’t exist.” he said slowly, looking at her.

He looked down at her large eyes, her parted lips. She was beautiful, strong and dangerous. Everything that made her a great chess player. He didn’t move. It was Elizabeth who did. Standing on her tiptoes to plant a gentle kiss on the cheek of his face. She stayed, hovering centimetres away from him. And he gave in… admitted defeat. He moved his hands to gently hold the side of her face, before tilting her head across and pulling her lips to his.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains sex.

Chapter 8

The kiss was an opening - they had crossed a boundary, a point of no return. She found his lips surprisingly soft. He had expected her to recoil immediately. But she continued. They were careful, feeling each others reactions, each ready for the other to suddenly break off, moving with apprehension, but with a fluid ease. His hands caressed her neck and jawline, as she gripped onto his wide shoulders. He pulled back to look at her, her face flushed and gentle, and moved back to her lips, capturing them with his own. She slowly opened her mouth to him - and he gently let his tongue tentatively caress her own. The sensation made them both moan as they deepened the kiss. 

Vasily stopped, barely able to breathe, heart racing. “We… there is nowhere to sit or…. to…”  
Elizabeth smiled at his sudden shyness. He is still a gentleman at the end of the day, she thought to himself… “Take off your jacket”, she said to him, smiling gently. “We can put it on the floor. If you don’t mind…” Vasily immediately began to unbutton the black piece of clothing, before stepping aside from her to lay it down on the floor at her feet. She moved back to him, dropping her shoes into a pile and taking off her white blazer. He looked at her with a mixture of desire and fear, as she lowered herself down. She took his hand, and pulled her down to him, bringing his face down to kiss her once again. He sighed, and moved across to plant kisses along her neck, eliciting a moan from her at the sensation of his rough mouth and chin moving slowly along her throat.

His fingers slowly lifted the silk of her dress up, above her waist, before gently moving across the her lower stomach, brushing over the waistband of her underwear. He broke off the kiss for a second just to glance down - silk and white, with lace adorning the top, and gently cupping her secret underneath. The sight made his cock twitch under his trousers in desperation, and he couldn’t help but let out a moan. In response, Elizabeth felt herself grow hot and wet at his reaction. She could feel how desperate and aroused he already was, and could feel her body also growing hotter with desire.

He returned to her mouth, kissing her and letting his tongue stroke hers with long, tender strokes. Elizabeth felt choked by the dress - and swiftly reached round and unclasped the back, let it fall down her shoulders and across her body before tossing it onto the floor next to them. The action took Vasily surprise, as he found himself gazing down at her naked figure underneath him. She was slender, and seemed so fragile and delicate - something of a juxtaposition to her masculine, aggressive chess persona. He looked into her large eyes, and she looked into his own, no longer steely, but warm and filled with desire.  
His eyes drifted down, past her collar bone covered by smooth marble skin, and down to her breasts. They were small and pert, her nipples pink and smooth. His breathing heavy, he gently pressed his lips to the skin of her chest, placing small kisses, moving deliberately and with great attention - the same as he would on a chess board. He moved agonisingly slowly, thought Elizabeth, as she felt him approach her left nipple - and after a brief pause he kissed the small tender spot, before taking it into his mouth, gently sucking.

Elizabeth moaned at the sensation and her hips involuntarily bucked upwards. She placed her hands across his broad shoulders, feeling their strength, noticing for the first time how colossal his sturdy frame really was, how easily he covered her body. She looked down at his head of smooth dark hair, speckled by strands of grey.  
After feeling her left nipple harden under his tongue, he stopped and moved across to her other, providing the same equal attention.  
His hand slid down her stomach, and finding the rim of her undergarments, slowly made its way underneath, his fingers moving down over her mound. He discovered to his surprise that she was completely hairless - it was not customary here in the USSR. Not that it would have mattered to him either way, but then again, in the Soviet state anything to do with sex, sensuality or passion was frowned upon and censored - the act of love-making castrated into the functional creation of the next generation of children. But the sensation of her soft flesh and unabashed ease with her sexuality made him feel even more in contact with her, with her every nerve.

He allowed his fingertips to brush over her clit and in between her moist folds, and she gasped at the sensation. Vasily took his time. His mouth left her breast and moved to her neck to gently kiss at the soft skin, while his fingers moved in between her slick wetness. The sensation was enough to make him nearly come, but he managed to maintain composure, though he could feel his cock straining and his heart racing. Elizabeth began to let out small moans at the feeling of his finger making small circles over her clit, and he gently let his middle finger slowly enter her.  
He felt her tightness close around his finger, holding him and beckoning him in further. Elizabeth sighed in delight - she could feel her walls involuntarily gripping, sensations over which she no longer had any control. She grasped his hair with one hand, and proceeded to pull down her undergarments off with the other. Free of the material, Vasily felt at ease to slowly move his finger out of her and back in, eliciting a cry from Elizabeth.

“Please…” moaned Elizabeth.

“Shhhh….” whispered Vasily, though his voice was trembling. “With patience…”. 

As Vasily continued, he added another finger - she arched her back in response. It was already enough to fill her, he could feel, and the thought made him even harder and desperate. He glanced down again - could see her wetness begin to make a small mark on his jacket, could feel her juices over his hand, and could see her clit begin to stiffen. It was beautiful - a little pink head emerging, twitching innocently and temptingly, beckoning him to take it.

He sighed, as he moved down her body to taste the rounded swollen nub with the flat of his tongue. Elizabeth’s back arched - his tongue was smooth and deliberate, encouraging her, egging her on.

She tasted wonderful, and he moaned in approval as he closed his mouth on her, his fingers still inside, pressing into her wetness. Elizabeth felt like her whole body was alive - and she felt every touch, every tiny move he made, like every nerve was on fire. She had had sex with other men, of course - and she had desired other men. But even with Benny, though passionate and exciting, it was like a meeting head on, both grappling at each other for dominance, both still wrapped up in their own world and egos. Fire with fire.  
But this… it was as though Vasily was reading her body as well as he was reading her mind, and she couldn’t help but just let go, unconsciously responding to him. It wasn’t something she had ever felt before - there was a mutual respect and an understanding that passed between them, like a chemical reaction, melting them and igniting them at the same time - like fire with ice.

It was all starting to become too much for Elizabeth, and she could feel herself getting closer to her climax - dangerously closer - but it was too soon, she wanted more, she wanted to continue in this state of excitement longer.

“Vasily… Vasily please… wait… stop…” She grabbed his hair with her hand and pulled him off - his eyes snapped upwards, looking at her from under dark brows, clearly confused.

“Why?…” He asked in a low voice. “I want you to…”

“Not yet…” She replied, her voice breathless, her cheeks pink and and chest rising and falling in short breaths.

He rose up, still kneeling in between her and looked down, at his two long fingers in between her rosy wet lips, at her small round clit now swollen and engorged. 

“But… you’re so close…” he whispered, looking back at her, voice raspy.

“I know..” she said, a little louder and sharper than she’d expected, and rolled her eyes. “But… I want you… I want to feel you…”

She looked down at him, could see the large bulge straining against his suit trousers. Vasily sighed and closed his eyes.

“No… it doesn’t matter.” he muttered in a low voice.

“What are you talking about?!” exclaimed Elizabeth, half insulted half confused. She lifted an eyebrow - “Or are you just afraid of losing control?”

Vasily sighed and furrowed his brow - she wasn’t wrong. He had never liked being in a position of vulnerability - it went against all his natural instincts. But that wasn’t the reason he felt a deep reluctance. He looked again at her young face, her wide eyes, and small body… she suddenly pulled his hand out from her, and sat up, looking up at him as her deft hands moved to unbutton his trousers, pulling the zipper down.

“I want to see you, Vasily…” she whispered, voice dripping with desire. “I want to feel you…” Vasily felt his cock twitch again at her words, and he closed his eyes as she slowly pulled down his trousers and boxers, finally freeing him of all constraint. 

Elizabeth paused - and Vasily opened his eyes to look down at her. She was gazing at his member, mouth slightly opened. She gently placed one hand around him and he inhaled sharply and shut his eyes again. Elizabeth felt him in her hand - he was thick, and hot and heavy…. her fist barely closed around him.

She moved her hand up and down slightly, testing him, seeing how he would react. His breathing hitched, almost imperceptibly, and she felt him throb in her hand. She grinned, happy to know her power and his response… she dropped her head and let her tongue glide once innocently across the head, and he let out a small moan and she felt his hips want to thrust forwards, although he did his best to keep himself stable and steady.  
She let her lips close around him before taking him into her mouth, gently sucking.

“Oh God…” Vasily exclaimed in Russian. He opened his eyes again and looked down at her, his cock filling her mouth entirely, but only able to take in barely a third of the length of him, her bright eyes looking up at him from under heavy lashes. She continued to suck at him, moving her hand in time - he felt heavy and swollen, his breathing becoming short and erratic, his hips and his lower back tensing. He knew at this rate he wouldn’t last much longer, and he gently cupped her chin in his hand, pulling her off him.

He gently lowered her back down, her face clearly looking very pleased with herself - he laughed inwardly - one thing we know about Elizabeth Harmon, is that she loves to win, he though to himself. She placed her hands around his neck, her thumbs gently brushing his jawline. He looked down, his cock standing desperately, saw her wet thighs and small mound.

I would destroy her - he thought to himself, and he sighed once again. Elizabeth, reading his mind placed her hand on his cheek.

“You won’t…” she whispered with confidence. 

Whether it was a challenge or an assurance, Vasily couldn’t tell. But at this point, it no longer mattered. He quickly reached down and pulled off his trousers and boxers, undid his tie and removed his shirt - happy to finally be both completely naked in front of each other - no more hiding, no more walls. His strong thighs parted her own as he lifted her legs and placed them over his hips. He stopped for a second - he felt like he wanted to say something, to tell her something. But he couldn’t find any words.

Supporting his weight on one arm, he guided the head to her opening, slowly sliding up and down her. Elizabeth’s eyes closed again at the sensation, her hips making tiny movements to engage him and encourage him.

“Look at me…” Vasily whispered, almost inaudibly. “Please…” 

He said it with such tenderness, that Elizabeth felt something turn in her chest - like the gentle falling of snow.

He slowly pushed the head of his cock into her - she inhaled sharply - he was wide and stretching her, and her fingernails dug into his neck in an instinctive response to the pain. It was uncomfortable, but she strangely found the sensation exhilarating, like he was demanding something of her.

Vasily waited - still, without moving, saying nothing - just continuing to stare in into her eyes. As he felt her walls relax around him he moved himself in further. Again, her eyes squinted slightly at the sensation, but this time she felt her walls relax around him before tightening again. It was as though her body knew what to do… by intuition. Her juices began to run again, the sensitive nerves in her walls telling her that she wanted more… that she wanted, could, take all of him.  
Vasily could feel her slowly opening up to him, slowly and felt a sense of relief replace his initial apprehension. He was maintaining control, but already could feel he was beginning to lose himself in the intoxicating duality of heat and softness that was tightly enveloping his cock. 

“Elizabeth….” he said through heavy breaths. “Are… are you certain?…”

She slowly nodded in response . He thrust steadily but without hesitation, filling her up completely, feeling his cock pressing up into her soft depths. He let out a sigh of ecstasy. She cried out, then moaned in rapture.

-Its your game. Take it.-


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The room felt stale, and smelled of cigarettes. Hours, Vasily had been sat there - nothing new for a chess player - but this was not a game. It never had been.

“You don’t seem to understand,” said Vasily plainly, leaning forward. “I am the best chess player in the USSR. I was world champion-“

“Yes,” interrupted the official. “You were world champion. Up until yesterday. And as for best in the Soviet Union. Well, that may still be the case - but after your loss…”

The man paused for a second to re-adjust his tie, before clearing his throat and continuing, somewhat exasperated; “How can we be sure to convince our people of Soviet greatness, when the USSR’s greatest chess player has been beaten by an American! And not just an American, an American girl!”

An ‘American girl’, thought Vasily. How could they call her that. She was the world chess champion, a genius… and someone who for a brief moment at least, he had been allowed to love. He remembered last night, her face, the feelings that had stirred up in him, the feeling of being inside her… He shut his eyes momentarily, trying to recapture the magic, her smell, that moment… 

“Mr Vasily Mikhailovich!!” barked the man in front of him.

Vasily leaned back and stared downwards. He knew it was a lost cause. He had no more pieces to play, and he was cornered against an overwhelming opponent. It was checkmate.

“There is nothing more to discuss.” said the official, as he collected the pages in front of him, stubbing out the cigarette. “You have decided to retire from international competitive chess from here on out.”

Vasily snapped his head upwards. He could no longer feel his hands. His mouth fell open, just as he felt the ground fall from underneath him.

The official continued, smiling somewhat, but with absolute authority, “The KGB and Soviet state wholeheartedly supports your understandable decision. You will now follow in the footsteps of comrade and ex-world champion Luchenko. You will be rewarded for your services to the USSR and to chess. You will be given a medal and an honorary title. You will remain an exemplary member of the history of our great nation, and an inspiration. You will become a professor, a teacher and mentor to the next generation of chess players, who in turn shall become world champion and be proud symbols of the might and superiority of the great Soviet nation. But you will never compete internationally again. You will never travel out of this country. You will have no contact with any other chess players other than your comrades here in Moscow. Thank you once again for your services to our nation, Vasily Mikhailovich.”

The officials wasted no time. They stood up, picked up their papers and left the room, leaving Vasily still in his chair, staring into a black wall. 

Vasily walked down the steps out of the hotel. It was late in the evening, when the cold air would start to become painful. He thought about his 20 years as world champion. He thought about Elizabeth. He thought about her future, her chess career. She would be in a plane about now, flying over somewhere above the world. And she would still believe they would be meeting again. That they would be playing each other again. He hadn’t even been able to wish her farewell…  
He looked up. The sky was dark, pitch black, save for the speckles of white snow that were falling, heavier than before.

He closed his eyes. And a tear quietly slid down his cheek, as he resigned.

‘For Now I Am Winter’ - Olafur Arnalds and Arnor Dan


End file.
